


The One Where Sherlock is a Muslim

by footinsink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Muslim Sherlock, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, The One Where Sherlock is Muslim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:37:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/footinsink/pseuds/footinsink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is a Muslim hafidh (someone who has memorized the entire Quran) and a tajweed (Quranic pronunciation) snob, because Sherlock, and well, naturally.</p><p>Context: Sherlock was once a promising London imam, considered a rockstar among huffadh (plural of hafidh) but his powers of deduction and iron-clad sense of morality amid backward masjid politics led to him being removed by the board and shunned. Stalwart friends remain, among them Principal Greg Lestrade, who hires Sherlock to teach at his tajweed school and keeps him on no matter how many bubbles he bursts or students he sends into tears. John Watson, also the opposite of a fair-weather friend, is a fellow teacher at the school, universally loved by all and Sherlock’s flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Sherlock is a Muslim

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: I just wrote this and it’s not proofread. Feel free to point out errors or suggest improvements. My first work of fanfiction, ever. Please be gentle.

It’s just before sunset when Principal Greg Lestrade stops by 221B Baker Street. The scent of incense lit by Mrs. Hudson wafts through when he enters.

“Ah, Greg, love, come in. The boys are upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson says.

“That smells lovely,” Lestrade says. He can hear the muted voices of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. It sounds like arguing.

“Oh yes, Thursday nights, I always light a stick in remembrance of my mother. She passed on a Thursday night,” says Mrs. Hudson.

“Ah,” Lestrade says. He’s unsure if he should offer condolences or say something sympathetic, but Mrs. Hudson saves him the trouble.

“Have you another student, then, being here in person? Sherlock is going absolutely mad. The semester break is killing him.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of what it does to our Sherlock,” says Lestrade, heading up.

“We’ll have some tea after maghrib,” Mrs. Hudson says.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade says over his shoulder.

The mood in the flat is positively funeral when Lestrade enters. Sherlock is pacing sullenly in his blue robe, engaged in heated debate with Watson, who is sitting in his favorite armchair.

“Mishary alAfasy, no question,” Sherlock says hotly.

“Oh, come on Sherlock,” says Watson. “You can’t tell me Abdul Basit isn’t a contender. Greg, salam-alaykum.”

“It’s not a question of contending, John,” Sherlock says, as Lestrade returns John’s salaam. “It’s, ‘Can I live and die a thousand deaths in the space between ayaat?’”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, offended.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says, and offers salaams. He turns back to Watson. “More importantly, can my students? Attention span of gnats, the lot of them. Three hours on a Sunday and I’m supposed to transform this girl into a qari when she insists on binge-watching The Only Way is Essex instead of practicing her ghunnahs. No, it’ll have to be Mishary.”

“Oh, yeah, ghunnahs,” Lestrade says, trying to be sympathetic. He takes a seat on the couch usually reserved for clients, just below the yellow smiley face perforated with bullet holes. “Learned by ear, I did. Could never explain the difference between the two.”

“I’m going to pretend, Principal-sahib, that you said idgham and resist the urge to write ‘yarmaloon’ on your forehead,” Sherlock says. Every word drips “moron” without mentioning.

“Hey, I never claimed to be the expert, ya ustadh. I just pay the bills and console the parents you alienate,” says Lestrade. “So what’s all this about AbdulBasit rahimahullah, and Mishary?”

Sherlock’s head shoots up at the mention of ‘rahimahullah.’

“Sherlock’s gifting the students with complete Quran recitation recordings for Eid,” Watson says. “We’re debating which to include. Of course, it’s more an exercise in futil—“

“Abdul Basit’s dead?” interrupts Sherlock.

“Excuse me?” says Lestrade.

“You don’t know that? How do you not know tha—“ Watson starts, then stops, throwing up his hands and getting up. “Forget I even said that. I’m going to make wudhu.”

Sherlock watches him go, expression thoughtful.

“You really didn’t know Abdul Basit’s dead?” Lestrade says.

Sherlock glares. “No,” he says. “Rahimahullah,” after a beat.

They sit in silence for a moment.

“You could do both,” Lestrade says.

“What do you mean, both?” Sherlock asks.

“You’re gifting ‘em on a flash drive or something, right? Lots of space, and audio doesn’t take up much room. You could include both.”

Sherlock appears to have never considered the possibility.

“Or, you know,” starts Lestrade, knowing he’s about to play with fire, “you could just record your own—“

“No.”

“But everyone’s been asking, Sherlock, practically haranguing—“

“No,” says Sherlock.

Lestrade raises his hands in temporary defeat, the apparent theme of the evening. “Don’t think I’m giving up.”

“Mrs. Hudson, maghrib!” calls Sherlock after Watson emerges from the washroom, wiping his hands on a towel.

Sherlock and Watson start to lay out the prayer rugs.

“Sherlock, you lead,” says Watson, while Lestrade goes to make wudhu.

“Why must I always lead?” asks Sherlock.

“Oh, I don’t know, Sherlock, there’s the small matter of you knowing the entire Quran by heart, being skilled in the seven ahruf, impeccable command of tajweed and qiraat—” says Watson, counting off on his fingers.

“All right, all right,” Sherlock interrupts, feigning annoyance, but he can’t fight the small smile forming on his lips. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you owe me a recitation of Mutafiffin.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” says Watson.

They line up as Mrs. Hudson scurries in. Her face lights up as she sees Sherlock in the lead.

“Oh, we’re in for a treat,” Mrs. Hudson says, wrapping a dupatta around herself. “Just like taraweeh in Ramadan—“

“Mrs. Hudson,” Watson hisses, as Sherlock’s face falls.

“Sorry, love,” she says.

Watson presses his shoulder to Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock presses back.

Lestrade emerges from the bathroom. “Waiting on me, then?”

“Ages,” intones Sherlock dryly, having brushed off Mrs. Hudson’s comment.

Lestrade takes his place off Sherlock’s right shoulder, Watson to Sherlock’s left. 

Sherlock clears his throat.

“Oh, right,” says Lestrade, and calls the iqamah.

Sherlock calls the takbir, raising his hands and temporarily throwing the problems of their world over his shoulders.

When Sherlock begins reciting, Mrs. Hudson sniffles. Lestrade openly weeps.

If Watson feels his vision go a little blurry, well, it’s been ages since they did the dusting.


End file.
